The Guilty (5 page)

“They let the bastard go, Daddy! They let him go!”

He had no words to comfort her at that moment, so he just squeezed her tighter. After a few seconds it occurred to him that she was there alone and he asked, “Claire?”

He could barely make out Jeannie’s answer through her tears. “They took her to the infirmary. She fainted when they…when they gave the verdict. She was on the floor and he just walked out without even looking at her!”

“Christ, I’m so sorry, Jeannie.” It sounded trite, but what else could he say? How else could he express how badly he felt at the turn of events? He only hoped that she would recognize the sincerity in his words. She looked up at his face, her sobbing starting to ebb, and nodded.

He wanted to take her somewhere more private, where they could talk without being the center of attention. Out in the hallway, though, the cameramen and journalists would be waiting to swarm all over them. He looked over to the constable and signaled him closer.

“I can’t take her out the front door with those cameras out there.”

The constable nodded his understanding. “OK, you can take her through the judge’s door into the back hall. But you better follow me so you don’t run into any jurors back there.”

His arm wrapped protectively around Jeannie, Bratt hustled her down the aisle toward the front of the courtroom. Morin was still standing where he had left her, her concern evident on her face. He glanced at her briefly, but didn’t know how he could express his myriad feelings in that split-second’s look, so he turned his eyes back to the constable ahead of him and hoped she would understand.

Once into the corridor running behind all the courtrooms, the constable directed them to an empty meeting room where they could talk privately, and then left them. Bratt sat facing Jeannie, holding both her hands in one of his, stroking her tear-streaked cheek with the other. He waited for her to speak first.

“This really sucks,” she finally said.

“I know.”

“I really wish I hadn’t come today. I hate this whole place. I hate everything that goes on here.”

Bratt feared this comment might signal a renewed attack upon him or his profession, but he resisted the impulse to defend himself. 

“I just don’t understand,” she continued. “You take twelve average people off the street, people that are as honest as anybody else, and then convince them to let a guilty man go. How do you do that?”

Again Bratt held back from answering. Maybe it was a rhetorical question, but he suspected that her comments were directed at him personally.

She cleared up any doubts when she asked him, “Don’t you have anything to say?”

“I really wasn’t sure what I should answer. I didn’t think you would like whatever I had to say, so I thought it better...”

As he let his words trail off, she jumped to her feet. The anger in her eyes reminded him of the look she had given him in the hallway the day Claire broke down on the stand.

“Since when are you afraid to defend yourself, Daddy? You can defend any scumbag that can afford to hire you, so how come you can’t come up with a brilliant argument to convince me of how I’m seeing it all wrong?” 

“Jeannie, honey, let’s not do this now.”

“Why not? This is as good a time as any. Aren’t you supposed to think fast on your feet? So, think about this, Mr.
Defense Lawyer: he raped her and he walked away! You used to give us both piggyback rides, and this creep raped her!”

“Dammit, why are you blaming me for what he did to her?”

“Because you helped him get away with it!”  

Her accusation hit him like a slap in the face. He knew that her words applied equally to what Morris had done to Claire as well as to the crime he had been acquitted of four years earlier. An acquittal that had come courtesy of the courtroom tactics of one Robert Bratt,
defense attorney to the rich and infamous. Details of that earlier trial tried to force their way into Bratt’s mind, but he quickly shoved them back into the recesses of his memory. The sight of Claire crumbling under cross-examination had been reminder enough of how easily a nervous witness could be torn apart in court.

Jeannie didn’t give him any more time to think of a reply before lashing out with, “It could have been me that he raped!”

Bratt jumped to his feet. 

“Christ, this is ridiculous! Are you going to hold me responsible every time a client goes out and commits another crime?” 

“Why not? You’re always so quick to hog the credit when you win, but you never think about the consequences, do you? If that bastard had gone to jail for what he did four years ago, he might never have done it again. But you were just too damn good a lawyer!”

“This is insane. I was just-”

“Doing my job,” Jeannie cut in, parroting the last line of every lawyer’s defense.

She looked at her father defiantly, as if daring him to answer her back. But Bratt did not answer. He wanted to yell out that her accusations, however logical on the surface, were too simplistic and patently unfair to him and to the whole legal profession. He knew this in his mind, but in his heart he couldn’t find the words to answer her. 

He suddenly felt very old and tired, as if all the life had gone out of him. All his stock answers to Jeannie’s questions seemed weak and inappropriate.

The spell that held them both in place, staring at each other wordlessly, was broken when
the door opened and the constable stuck his head into the room.

“Sorry to interrupt, but number six just got here. The judge wants you to start right away.”

Bratt still couldn’t pull his gaze away from Jeannie. He couldn’t leave this situation unresolved, yet there was no more time to talk.

“I think we really need to talk about this some more, OK? Tonight, when we get home. Please?”

She didn’t answer him. Instead, she silently turned and walked out the door ahead of him and was quickly gone down the corridor. He knew that she could have made some sort of peace with him if she had wanted to, but she preferred leaving him twisting in the wind. Her bitterness would not let her turn back. Now he would have to put all thoughts of this argument behind him and get back to court. They were waiting for him.

A few minutes later, Robert Bratt stood at the broad desk that passed for a lectern in the courtroom, his shoulders bowed under the weight of the guilt his daughter had laid on him. He watched as the twelve jurors, eight women and four men, entered the room
and took their seats. Several of them glanced over in his direction. Their cheerful expressions revealed that, having watched him at work for two months, they were expecting him to put on a good show for them this morning. At least two of the female jurors smiled at him, and not for the first time during the trial.   

The room was now fairly full. A few journalists occupied the front row. Nancy Morin, whose frown of concern still lingered, sat just behind them. Around her sat various retirees and unemployed types that had drifted in during the weeks of the trial’s progress and ended up coming back for each new episode.

Yet Bratt just continued to stand, silent and motionless, totally unaffected by the people in the court or their expectations of him. He stood so impassively, while the jurors entered and the judge settled everyone in the courtroom down, that his client surely felt confident that Bratt was focusing on the job at hand, blocking out all the irrelevant distractions around him.

As it so happened, Bratt’s mind was so unfocussed on the case he was about to plead that Judge Smythe had to clear his throat meaningfully twice, and finally call out Bratt’s name, ever so politely, in order to get the lawyer’s attention.  

This finally brought Bratt back from his reverie, and he saw that they were all waiting for him to start. A momentary look of confusion flashed across his face, then it was gone. He was aware of what he was there to do, but a sort of mental inertia was keeping him from getting started, as Jeannie’s words continued to ring in his ears.

He looked over the twelve still-patient faces before him and realized that he was going to look like a fool if he didn’t say something soon. He tried to will his daughter’s tear-filled voice to leave him in peace just long enough for him to get through the morning.

Slowly, a sense of detached calm came over him. He began to feel like a disinterested observer with no stake in what was happening. He felt no pressure on himself at all, and he stood perceptibly straighter. He managed to let all of Jeannie’s arguments fade away quietly, until the sound of her voice in his memory was just so much background noise.  

Then, as if nothing else in the world could have been on his mind, he smiled the casually handsome smile he reserved for juries and women he hoped to seduce. He greeted the jurors with a bright “Good morning, everyone,” and they greeted him back cheerfully, relieved, perhaps, that all was back to normal.

To his left, Sam Brenton shifted uncomfortably in his seat, realizing that his presence in the courtroom had just become superfluous. Bratt’s hands, soft and perfectly-manicured, opened his file folder and settled his neatly written notes on the desk in front of him.

He heard a warm, rich voice begin to speak. It was reading some of the words that were written on the pages, and adding many other words. He recognized the voice as his own, and heard in it the confidence and ease he expected of himself at this time.   

In his mind’s eye he stepped forward and turned around to watch himself give his final arguments. He no longer saw the judge or the jury. He was alone in the courtroom. With total self-absorption, he studied every move that he made: how he turned his head, how he smiled occasionally, how he leaned forward and stood silently, his palms pressed down on the desk in front of him, when the moment called for seriousness.

He was perfectly aware of the impression he was making with his words, his tone of voice and his body language. These all had an unrehearsed quality, a seemingly honest spontaneity about them, as if he was just having a relaxed chat with the jurors, talking off the cuff. Years of practice had gone into refining his technique to get just that effect and he smiled inwardly as he watched it work its magic once more. His timing was perfect. Like a veteran stand-up comic, he knew just how long to pause before hitting his audience with a punch line.

Look at their eyes,
he thought.
Look at the expressions on their faces. They’re eating up every word I say.

He was in awe of himself.

Bratt sat with his feet up on his desk, his suit jacket off, his shirt sleeves rolled up. On the sofa, sitting up this time, was John Kalouderis. Ralph Ralston, who had brought his carceral law practice to their firm back in its third year, sat across from Bratt in a soft, low-backed leather chair usually occupied by clients. Sylvie had brought some mail into Bratt’s office and stayed, standing shyly to the side, to listen to him regale his associates with the highlights of his morning’s pleadings.

His co-workers smiled and nodded as Bratt told them how he had made Brenton squirm by pointing out to the jury every miniscule mistake and contradiction in the Crown’s evidence. They laughed as he repeated the well-timed jokes he had tossed to the jurors, which had allowed him to display how totally confident in his position he had been.

Bratt was on such a high after that morning’s pleadings that all of his misgivings about what had happened to Claire, and all of Jeannie’s angry accusations, had been consigned to a tiny compartment in the back of his mind that was off-limits for the time being. Once back at the office he had even skipped his lunch in order to treat everybody who approached his open door to tales of the performance he had put on. Other than actually addressing a jury there was little that gave him as much pleasure as bragging about it afterward.

He noticed with dismay that he had less than half an hour before
he had to be back in court. Judge Smythe was going to give the jury his instructions that afternoon. Bratt would have to interrupt his storytelling and that was a shame, because there was still so much story left to tell.

As he spoke, Leblanc’s corpulent form filled the doorway and Bratt paused in mid-anecdote to invite him to come in and listen. He noticed another man standing behind Leblanc, half-hidden by his partner’s bulk.

“Sorry, to interrupt you in the middle of your self-congratulation, Bobby-boy,” Leblanc said as he entered the office. “But there’s someone I want you to meet.”

He turned and motioned to the younger man who had remained outside the door, seemingly hesitant to enter the presence of such greatness. The newcomer was in his early twenties, with dark hair and a thick mustache. He walked in and stood next to Leblanc, looking like he’d found some sort of security in his presence.

“Everybody,” Leblanc continued, “meet Peter Kouri. He just finished his
stage
with the Federal Crown, which is probably why none of you have ever seen him in court.”

Kouri smiled and ducked his head in embarrassment at the jibe, while the other lawyers grinned knowingly.

“Anyway, he’s decided he’s fed up being mollycoddled and wants to practice some real law. While our esteemed colleague here,” he pointed at Bratt as he spoke, “has been bamboozling helpless jurors with his magnificent oratory, I’ve been carrying on the job interviews all by myself. In Peter I believe I’ve found someone who’ll fit in with our little family quite nicely, if, that is, we can help him unlearn any of the bad habits he’s developed over the past six months.”

Kalouderis motioned over to Kouri and said, “If you’re going to join us then you might as well get used to an important ritual in this office: listening to Robert Bratt remind us of how great he is.”

The lawyers laughed loudly at this, but Kouri held back until he saw that Bratt enjoyed the joke at his own expense as much as the others. Bratt dropped his feet to the floor and stood up to shake his hand in welcome. Kouri’s grip was strong, Bratt was happy to see, showing more self-confidence than did his nervous smile.

Kouri almost gushed with enthusiasm as he shook Bratt’s hand. “This is a real
honor, Mr. Bratt. I’ve been following your legal career since I was a kid.”

Bratt grabbed his stomach like he’d been punched and winced in mock pain. “Ouch! Kid, you’re making me feel so old,” he complained, nevertheless flattered by the younger lawyer’s admiration. “Anyway, I’m glad to have you aboard. I think you’ll find we’re a fun group of people to work with.”

Leblanc stepped up and stood between the two, putting an arm around each one’s shoulders. “I’m glad you two are hitting it off, Bobby-boy, because you’re probably going to be seeing a lot of each other for the next little while. First thing I told Peter he’d be doing is giving you a bit of a hand in your next case.”

Bratt’s smile faded slightly as he looked suspiciously at Leblanc. “That so?”

Leblanc’s own smile faded entirely, before he turned away from Bratt and began to shoo everyone else out of the office.

“The old brain trust’s going to need some time alone, people, so why don’t you show Peter here around a little. You too, John,” he said to Kalouderis, who still sat on the sofa. “You can have a nap after everybody’s gone home tonight.”

Kalouderis grinned and flipped his middle finger in Leblanc’s direction before getting up and following the others out of the office, leaving the two partners alone. Bratt returned to his feet-on-the-desk position, while Leblanc closed the door.

“So, what’s the scoop?” Bratt asked.

Leblanc didn’t sit, a sure sign that he was feeling nervous. He ran his fingertips along the back of the chair that Ralston had just vacated, and pursed his lips, before finally answering.

“Well, I spoke to Lynn Sévigny…about that murder case I told you she had.”

“I hope you asked about her health while you were at it.”

“Geez, Bob, I’m not that much of an asshole. I made sure she was fine, OK? I’m just trying to get to the point quickly because you’ve got to be in court in twenty minutes.”

“You’re right there, so let’s get to it.”

“Right. Bottom line is she’d like you to take the case.”

Bratt stamped his feet down to the floor. “Are you nuts? I’m not taking on any new cases, and you know it. I’m exhausted and I’m planning on sleeping in for the next two weeks.”

“That’s perfect,” Leblanc smiled, “you’ll still be back a week before the trial.”

The weak attempt at a joke only got Bratt angrier, and when he spoke this time he was almost shouting. “I’m not kidding! You can shove your dumb jokes, J.P., because I need some time to myself.”

“OK, OK, I’m sorry. Don’t take my head off. I never wanted to get you involved in this thing in the first place. I know how hard you’ve been working, how tired you are. It’s just that when I went to speak to Lynn she brought up your name before I even had a chance to ask her about the file.”

“
She
brought up my name?” Bratt was surprised to hear this. He had been certain that his partner had decided to drop this hot potato into his lap because Leblanc hated handling major trials himself as much as he hated seeing them go to lawyers from outside the firm.

“Yes, she did. I told you, she knew she couldn’t do this kid’s trial herself, no matter what the money involved was. She’s about as straight a shooter as they come, as you’ve often said yourself. So, she’s been considering who she could refer it to and I guess you’ve been such a buddy to her all these years that she chose you.”

“Well, it was nice of her to think of me, but she’s going to have to find someone else.”

“You know that’s not going to be easy at this late date. You’re not the only lawyer with scheduling problems.”

“So, if everybody else gets to beg off because there’s not enough time, how come I don’t? Why am I so special?”

“Because, Bobby-boy, you
are
special. And that’s not only your own opinion, by the way, Lynn thinks so too. She said she wouldn’t trust any other lawyer with this file. It seems she already told the kid’s mother all about you, told her how you were the Second Coming of the Messiah. Now the mother’s just bursting to meet you.”

“How the hell do you know the mother’s ‘just bursting’?”

“Because the lady told me so herself. Her name is Jennifer Campbell, and she was with Lynn when I went to the hospital. She’s a very spiritual lady and she had some sort of prayer session going on up there when I showed up. Very concerned for Lynn, she was. And you can be sure now that you’re in the picture, she’s not planning to sit idly by and miss the Second Coming. Not when her son’s the first soul that’s gonna be saved. So, Mrs. Campbell will be here to meet you at five-thirty today.”

Judge Smythe had his hands full trying to keep the jurors’ attention as he gave them his final instructions before they began their deliberations. The twelve citizens seemed to be able to smell the finish line at the end of the grueling marathon, and their only thoughts were to get it over with as fast as possible.

Bratt had difficulty concentrating as well, but this time it wasn’t because the dry subject matter bored him. Rather, his mind was on the murder trial that he had never intended to take on. Leblanc only had time to give him the briefest details in preparation for meeting the client’s mother, despite Bratt’s insistence that he had absolutely no interest in doing so. As it turned out the details were more than enough to pique his interest. 

Marlon Small, Leblanc told him, was the oldest son of a hardworking Jamaican immigrant and had never been in trouble with the law before. Now he was accused of two counts of first-degree murder and one count of attempted murder.

The shootings had occurred in a Little Burgundy crack den the previous June 14. This small section of town, barely a few blocks wide and tucked into the southwest corner of the city, contained a mix of immigrant families and blue-collar workers who co-existed uneasily with drug-dealers and street gangs.

Small was alleged to have been one of two gunmen who had gone up to the dingy apartment to steal drugs, but took lives instead. The other gunman was an eighteen-year old named Marcus Paris, who, soon after his arrest, had made a deal to testify against Small in return for being allowed to plead guilty to second degree murder. As a result Paris would be eligible for parole after serving only ten years, with a promise by the Crown of a favorable recommendation. Bratt thought that was a small price to pay for the two dead bodies he’d left behind.

The other main prosecution witness was Dorrell Phillips, the surviving victim of the shooting. He had gone to that apartment looking for his older brother, a longtime junkie who often smoked his crack there. Dorrell had ended up with two bullets to the back of his neck that he had miraculously survived.

He would be called on at trial to identify Small as the man who shot him. His brother, Dexter, and the crack dealer known as Indian had not been as fortunate as Dorrell. Their bodies had been found lying face down on the bloody apartment floor by the late-arriving police.

As much as he had not wanted to get involved with this case, Bratt couldn’t stop thinking about it. According to Leblanc, Lynn Sévigny had strongly believed in her client’s innocence, despite the seemingly overwhelming evidence. This was what intrigued Bratt the most, because the case against Small seemed almost open and shut. Lynn wasn’t one of those softhearted beginners who took everything their clients told them for Gospel, and the possibility that there could be such a strong case against a genuinely innocent man made for a challenge that he thought would be worthy of his skills.

Sitting in the courtroom, half-listening to Smythe explain the jury’s duties, Bratt mentally kicked himself at the realization that he was actually considering defending Marlon Small, despite his earlier reticence. A gambler by nature, Bratt could see himself defying the heavy odds and riding the long shot to victory. He also thought the subject matter would be much more appealing than what he had lived through for the past two months. Furthermore, the murder trial was scheduled to last only two weeks, which made it a wind sprint compared to the Hall trial.

He balanced the pros and cons of jumping into the Small case at such a late date. Beyond his mental and physical exhaustion, he wanted to spend some time reconnecting with his daughter. They had grown apart recently, as was evidenced by their recent conflicts. Despite how interested he was in the case, he had all the reasons in the world to pass on it.

Bratt entered the front door of the firm just before 5:30 p.m. and Jennifer Campbell stood up to greet him. She was a petite woman wearing her hair in a short ponytail and his first thought was that she must be Small’s sister, not his mother. He guessed that she was seven or eight years younger than himself, which meant that she must have been around sixteen when she had had her son. She had a pretty, but harshly-used face which wore the traces of raising four children, usually alone, and often working two jobs to keep the family clothed and fed. She had a proud nature that he could sense just in the manner that she stood straight and looked him in the eye as he shook her hand.

She had been sitting in the waiting area with Kouri, his unexpected assistant. Bratt was less than thrilled to see the young lawyer there. He wanted to be alone with Mrs. Campbell, especially if it turned out that he was going to have to disappoint her. He didn’t want the president of his fan club watching wide-eyed as he tried to weasel his way out of an uncomfortable situation.

“Mrs. Campbell,” he greeted her, wearing his serious, but compassionate, look. “I’m so glad you came. I’ve been wanting to talk to you ever since I heard about your son’s case.”